What is the Proper Thing to Do?
Back in the day, the Bible for good behavior was Emily Post’s book “Etiquette”. Because of this book, although we typically ate off of paper plates at home, we at least knew not to lick our fingers should the governor ever invite us to dinner. My parents did their best, it isn’t their fault if Emily sometimes let us all down. Here are two distressing examples.
Mom’s traumatic experience happened the year we lived in Hungary when I was three. Her story is that we had all been invited to dinner. At that time, the custom was to give anything extra special to the youngest person. The first course was a lovely homemade soup. Mom glanced at my bowl and, GAACK!” There was a real chicken foot floating in the broth. I hadn’t noticed the foot yet, but what would happen when I did? Would I scream and point, thus insulting our hosts, embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Would I fish it out with my fingers and start playing with it thus embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Would I try to eat it, no doubt risking death? Or even worse, eat it wrong thus embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Or most horrifying of all, would I give it to her and then she’d have to eat it? Mom had to act quickly. Seeing no other options, she slipped the chicken foot into her purse. What haunted her for the rest of her life, was that she was never sure if she had really gotten away with it, or if everyone was just too polite to comment on her odd behavior.
So, how does one gracefully eat chicken feet? I have no idea. My plan, if such a disaster befalls me again, is to develop a sudden poultry allergy and pray that I won’t be served something even worse.
Another time Emily Post let us down was at the funeral for my beloved grandfather, Opa. In remembering him, we all thought of his metal detector and the box where he kept the junk he discovered. One of the nicer finds was a man’s ring inscribed with “I love Marcia” inside. None of us thought twice about it. We also didn’t question why he took to wearing the ring, even though Omi’s name was Anna. We knew he and Omi were devoted to each other, and he was wearing the ring because, “why should such a nice thing go to waste?” It was just one of many funny stories.
But at the viewing just before the funeral, someone noticed that “Oh NO!” He was wearing TWO wedding rings, and the “I love Marcia” ring was on the bottom! Omi, was standing bravely by, dabbing at her eyes. She hadn’t seen it. One by one, very casually, we all made our way back to the casket to look for ourselves.
What to do? We couldn’t let him be buried like that could we? But it was hardly right to reach in and wrestle the rings off of his finger. I don’t know what Emily Post would have done, but in the end, we ran out of time and just sort of let it go. We consoled ourselves that if Opa was still wearing the ring when Omi got to the other side to join him, she could take it up with him there.
Of course, these are extreme situations, but even every day encounters offer plenty of room for embarrassment. I don’t know about other people, but it usually takes me about six hours after the moment has passed to figure out what I should have said or done. But here’s a happy thought. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe even Emily Post struggled. Maybe she was a social disaster and only wrote the book after she’d had a lifetime to work out what she should have done at the time. It’s a consoling thought.
Mom’s traumatic experience happened the year we lived in Hungary when I was three. Her story is that we had all been invited to dinner. At that time, the custom was to give anything extra special to the youngest person. The first course was a lovely homemade soup. Mom glanced at my bowl and, GAACK!” There was a real chicken foot floating in the broth. I hadn’t noticed the foot yet, but what would happen when I did? Would I scream and point, thus insulting our hosts, embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Would I fish it out with my fingers and start playing with it thus embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Would I try to eat it, no doubt risking death? Or even worse, eat it wrong thus embarrassing her and ruining Dad’s career? Or most horrifying of all, would I give it to her and then she’d have to eat it? Mom had to act quickly. Seeing no other options, she slipped the chicken foot into her purse. What haunted her for the rest of her life, was that she was never sure if she had really gotten away with it, or if everyone was just too polite to comment on her odd behavior.
So, how does one gracefully eat chicken feet? I have no idea. My plan, if such a disaster befalls me again, is to develop a sudden poultry allergy and pray that I won’t be served something even worse.
Another time Emily Post let us down was at the funeral for my beloved grandfather, Opa. In remembering him, we all thought of his metal detector and the box where he kept the junk he discovered. One of the nicer finds was a man’s ring inscribed with “I love Marcia” inside. None of us thought twice about it. We also didn’t question why he took to wearing the ring, even though Omi’s name was Anna. We knew he and Omi were devoted to each other, and he was wearing the ring because, “why should such a nice thing go to waste?” It was just one of many funny stories.
But at the viewing just before the funeral, someone noticed that “Oh NO!” He was wearing TWO wedding rings, and the “I love Marcia” ring was on the bottom! Omi, was standing bravely by, dabbing at her eyes. She hadn’t seen it. One by one, very casually, we all made our way back to the casket to look for ourselves.
What to do? We couldn’t let him be buried like that could we? But it was hardly right to reach in and wrestle the rings off of his finger. I don’t know what Emily Post would have done, but in the end, we ran out of time and just sort of let it go. We consoled ourselves that if Opa was still wearing the ring when Omi got to the other side to join him, she could take it up with him there.
Of course, these are extreme situations, but even every day encounters offer plenty of room for embarrassment. I don’t know about other people, but it usually takes me about six hours after the moment has passed to figure out what I should have said or done. But here’s a happy thought. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe even Emily Post struggled. Maybe she was a social disaster and only wrote the book after she’d had a lifetime to work out what she should have done at the time. It’s a consoling thought.